Props to Adam and Potes. I was rounding up, you guys.
New York City! Land of opportunity! Where the buildings rise tall, where the melting pot simmers, where the streets are paved with gold...lamé strappy sandals. Down in Soho and upstairs in the Zo-Loft, a hand secures said footwear to said foot, as ten remaining blondes-at-heart consider that at least their numbers have finally decreased to a figure the majority of them have been schooled to count up to. Welcome to the city, doe-eyed, clueless foreigners. Do you speak the language? HOW ARE YOU ENJOYING OUR COUNTRY SO FAR? What's wrong? You look lost. But don't worry. Those little shoes look perfect for walking around here.
The shoes, the hands, the confessional, and the "Charter Member Of The League Of Djb Doppelgangers" ID card all belong to young Shandi -- and I'm not saying that I'm any kind of supermodel, I'm just saying that she...isn't -- who we join in progress as she tries desperately to perfect walking without looking like she's trying to kick Fred Flinstone's car into neutral during a particularly grueling snowstorm. Turn into the skid, Shandi! Turn into the...crash! Well, this can only get worse before it gets better. In a confessional tricked out with soft, gauzy flashback effects that Tyra should add to her makeup kit to further soften her god-given alien qualities, Shandi relives the Rose Ceremony -- er, ah, the Headshot Hilarity of last week, remembering, "The last elimination, I seriously thought it was gonna be me. I keep thinking about how bad my walk was." A flashback shot of Shandi's walk in the elimination room makes you think she should have just kept walking when she reached the far end of the runway and left that room forever. She shatters linguistic records for the amount of syllables one could cram into the word "puh-leeeeeeze" from the viewing audience who think we know everything about the nuanced art of walking. Oh, wait. Here's something I remember learning at some point in my first sixteen months on Earth: right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Holy crap! I do know everything about walking! I would stop and bow, but I'm too busy loving walking!
We cut back to the inside of the Zo-Loft to find Shandi standing at the end of the runway (as I often am at mine) wearing a bandana, a t-shirt, and what looks like a long orange and silver tablecloth tied around her waist, like she's the lone competitor and therefore default victor of America's Next Top Slightly Stoop-Shouldered Homeless Lunatic Who Lives In A Bag In My Garbage Pile. Please can we do that show, Tyra? First name: "Shandi." Hometown: "Changes Daily, since shopping carts have wheels."